


Days Before; Unwinding

by lipsstainedbloodred



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Series, soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:55:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25942471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lipsstainedbloodred/pseuds/lipsstainedbloodred
Summary: A series of one-shots featuring the Archives crew being as soft as I can get away with writing them.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	1. the one where daisy comforts jon

Daisy appreciates the quiet of the Archives now. Before the coffin, sitting down amongst the dust and files had been almost claustrophobic in its stillness. She knows the truth behind claustrophobia now though, understands the true weight that quiet and isolation can hold. How not knowing if you’d ever see another person again can crush more than the weight of the earth folding around you on all sides. 

She’d gone out for lunch an hour ago on her own. It felt like a test, the gnawing hunger in her blood versus her will to make it be still, no one there to hold her accountable except for her own desire to be better. It was alright, fine. She’d gotten a sandwich at the cafe and impulsively ordered a salad to take back to the Institute for Sims. God knew he’d never remember to eat if she didn’t remind him.

Taking the stairs back down into the Archives was almost soothing despite the heavy weight of knowing someone was watching her. The noise of London streets faded into a faint murmur and the vice grip in her chest eased. 

She passes Martin’s desk, its lonely desk plant turning a sad and sickly brown without it’s owner around to care for it. There’s still a notepad with a doodle on the corner from Tim, a novelty mug shaped like a cat’s head with a tea stained interior, and a handful of pens scattered about. It looks like he could return any day now, but Daisy hasn’t seen Martin in weeks. She knows it’s been even longer for the others.

It’s been the hardest on Jon. She’s watched him stop at that desk several times and just stare, a far away look in his eyes. 

She passes Melanie’s desk, almost completely bare, and the one Basira has claimed as her own. That one makes her pause, a hand reaching out to brush over a jacket draped over the back of a chair before she forces her way past it to Jon’s office.

Her knock is only a play at politeness as she opens the door without waiting for him to acknowledge her. “Lunch Sims,” She says as she walks in. The lights are off so she turns them on, turning around to place her bag from the cafe on his desk. When she sees him crouched on the floor in the corner, his knees pulled up to his chest, it’s barely even a surprise. “What’s wrong with you?” She asks, crouching in front of him.

“I just miss him,” comes his voice, sorrow soaked and hitched with bitter loneliness. He sounds on the verge of tears even if he won’t look at her, fingers buried in a jumper two sizes too large to be his own. 

“Come here,” Daisy finds herself saying before she can stop herself. When he looks up, eyes wet and hands shaking, she knows she wouldn’t have wanted to stop herself even if she could. She opens her arms in invitation, even as his brow crinkles and mouth twists. 

“What?”

“I won’t repeat myself, Sims.”

He looks at her, half hope and half bewilderment, before his shoulders slump and he’s crashing into her with all the grace of a tide rushing in. His hands are crushed between them like he doesn’t know where to put them, where they’d be allowed. Daisy just sighs and folds her arms around him, tucking her chin over his head. Holding him small and safe against her. 

Useful to someone for the first time since she’d been rid of the Hunt. It’s hard to imagine being useful without blood under her nails or between her teeth, for that gentle name she’d been given to rise up from between her ribs and blossom into being. 

She can feel his mouth against her neck, lips wet as he tries to speak. She holds him tighter, feels his fingers dig into the fabric of her shirt. “Shhh,” she rumbles and feels him sigh. “I know. Be still.” She slides a hand into his hair, rubbing fingers against his scalp the way her mother did for her after nightmares as a child. His breath hitches and she knows he’s crying, silently in a way that makes her wonder when he’d learned to quiet his own sadness. “I’ve got it, I’ve got you.”

She doesn’t know if he sleeps anymore, if he even can, but the way his body gives into hers, the way he slumps boneless knowing she can hold him up, is a very sweet approximation.


	2. the one where tim and jon smoke on the roof

“Come on in, make yourself at home.” Tim says, throwing open the door to his flat and flicking on the light. It illuminates the sitting room with a kitchenette off to the side, a short hall that leads to the bedroom and bath. There’s still boxes piled in the corner of the sitting room, half unpacked next to a short and squat bookshelf, comics lining the top two shelves and a couple of hardbacks making use as bookends. His couch was a pick from the charity shop, an ugly shade of pea green covered in what once might have charitably been called flowers but look more like patches of mold. There's a rickety table placed in front of it, a pile of coasters stacked at the center - a gift from Sasha when Tim moved in a couple weeks ago.

“It’s...nice.” Jon says, wrinkling his nose a bit in obvious distaste. His socked feet curl into the carpet, his shoes set neatly next to the front door.

Tim laughs and dumps his messenger bag on his tiny kitchen table. It wobbles a bit, the legs a little uneven that he hasn’t bothered to fix yet. Some unopened mail flutters to the floor. There’s a couple of mugs sitting in the drying rack and Tim takes them out, heading for the coffee pot almost on autopilot. “Coffee?” He asks.

“Oh, yes, thank you.” Jon says from the sitting room. 

Tim hums in acknowledgement. He’s been making coffee for himself and Jon for over a year now. Jon prefers tea in the morning and afternoon, but when they plan to stay up late for research then they both gravitate toward coffee. Hell, he even has a mug that he designated Jon’s for nights like this - a pale yellow with lines on it, made to look like a library card. There’s always the smallest smile on Jon’s face when he sees it, like he’s delighted but trying to hide behind a veneer of pretentious apathy. 

Jon’s got his laptop out on the coffee table by the time Tim gets out with their coffee, papers strewn over the table and across the cushions of the couch. Tim makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “Already, Jon?”

“What?”

Tim gestures at the piles of research vaguely, almost spilling coffee over his hand.

Jon takes his mug. “Is that not why I’m here?”

“Is it?” Tim gins, raising an eyebrow. “Sure there’s no other reason? A little _Netflix and chill_?” He’s joking, of course, he knows Jon has never expressed any interest in him in that way. Just a harmless flirtation, meant only to bring a little bit of heat to Jon’s face and neck. 

And that it does, the tips of his ears burning a ruddy red at the implication. “ _Tim_ -”

“Kidding, kidding.” Tim says, brushing some papers away to sit next to him. “What are we looking at?”

Jon huffed. “Nothing exciting for now. Tax forms for case #0022711.”

“Ah, was that the arson one?”

Jon elbows Tim in the side lightly. “We don’t know that it was arson.”

“No, right, it was the spooky fire lady, right, okay.”

“Just--” Jon sighs and shoves a handful of records into Tim’s lap, “Help me with this.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

Night falls slow and easy during the silence between them broken only intermittently by the scratch of pen on paper and clack of keys on Jon’s laptop. Tim gets up to refill their coffee and takes a moment just to watch Jon, glasses sliding down his nose and brow screwed up as he tries to make sense of sixty years worth of tax fraud and insurance claims. He can’t stop the smile that breaks out at the corners of his mouth, fond at the way Jon shoves at his glasses with his thumb and surely leaves smudges on the glass.

“What?” Jon asks after a moment, startling him out of his reverie.

“Nothing.” Tim says, “Might be about time for a break though.”

Jon hums, pats his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He holds them up to Tim, a question and offer all in one.

“Get your shoes on. We’re not smoking in here.”

Jon wrinkles his nose. “It’s cold outside.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep you warm.”

“Ugh,” Jon says. He stands and stretches, going to the door to pull on his shoes.

They take the access stairs up to the roof. There’s a little garden area off to one side, with a low brick wall to sit on. Tim sets out an ash tray while Jon lights two cigarettes, handing one off to Tim. They sit down side by side, Jon leaning a little into Tim’s side for warmth, his elbows on his knees.

Jon looks up, blowing out smoke. “It’s nice up here.” 

Tim hums in agreement. It’s hard to see the stars anywhere in London, but he thinks he can make out the faint pin pricks of light amongst the clouds and bright lights of the city shining up from below. The moon is a faint slice of light, grinning down at them. He looks back down at Jon and can’t stop the smile from forming.

It’s a bit windy, and almost too chilly to be up here without their coats, but Tim wouldn’t trade it for anything. He puts his hand down on the wall between them, fingers splayed loosely. Jon doesn’t look away from the sky but his hand twitches before moving down to set on top of Tim’s loosely curling their fingers together. It sets Tim’s heart off beating hard in his chest and he forces himself not to say anything, not to stare. 

He can take this slow, he can. Jon was the first friend he’d made after...well, after the hardest time he’d ever had in his life. He wouldn’t trade that for anything. Gently, so gently, he squeezes Jon’s hand with his own and watches Jon’s mouth curl into a smile.

They have time.

They have so much time.


End file.
